When I hit play, animals lose their dignity. I’ve seen pigs moonwalk, a turtle breakdance on its shell, and a weasel do unspeakable things with a rhino. My sets don’t entertain—they possess.

I don’t have humps—I am the party. Bass pumps straight out of me, literally. Someone once danced so hard their leg fell asleep for two days. Another drank Gunther’s blue stuff mid-drop and swore they time-traveled. Might’ve. No one’s seen him since.

Gunther served me a coffee so strong I heard tomorrow’s concert. Excellent crowd. Terrible bass solo. I’ve spent all day practising a replacement, but apparently tomorrow’s me is stubborn about artistic freedom.